


Wretched and Divine

by meet_me_in_samarra



Series: Wretched and Divine [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Doctor John, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pining John, Punk!lock, Punklock, Seductive Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Doctor, Slow Burn, don´t copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-18 20:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21282470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meet_me_in_samarra/pseuds/meet_me_in_samarra
Summary: Dr. John Watson is on call at the A&E when he attempts to treat a very special patient.Instead he finds himself a very special treat.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Wretched and Divine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553941
Comments: 39
Kudos: 113





	Wretched and Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
This is the first thing (not only fanfic) I ever posted so I´m quite excited about it!  
The fic is not betaed and I´m not a native speaker, so please excuse any mistakes I made.  
I do not own Sherlock, I just like to play with the lovely characters in my imagination.  
Hope you enjoy and please feel free to comment.

Dr. John Hamish Watson smiled broadly because he felt genuinely happy.

Of course, most people would think that the reason for his current joy was no reason to be joyous at all. But who cares what people thought anyway? And even if John did, nobody would ever know that the massive accident on the M25 which included 16 crashed cars, four wrecked lorries and two shredded motorcycles was the best thing that happened to him since he had been invalided home from Afghanistan. It was as if the war had finally come back to him in all its gorgeous gory glory.

The A&E of the hospital had been flooded with casualties that showed all kinds of severe injuries. Openly fractured bones, squashed limbs, several drivers just an inch away from dying, multiple organ failures, mayhem, screams and blood everywhere. Just the sounds of gunshots were missing for the whole experience but, well, you could just request too much, couldn´t you?

At the moment John was standing at the emergency entrance where the ambulances loaded off their human freight to catch a bit of fresh air after three spectacularly busy hours of dealing with the flood of victims from the motorway.

Life was good. More than just good. Great actually.

At first, when he had been discharged of the RAMC because of the gunshot wound he contracted while trying to save his comrades in a local conflict in the province of Helmand that disrupted his shoulder and left him with an intermittant tremor in his hand, constant pain and an utterly stupid but seemingly incurable psychosomatic limp, he had been devastated. He could not work as an army doctor anymore and he seemed to be unable to even be a simple doctor anymore.

Until he got a job at the A&E. While chaos around him dominated, he thrived. The limp would be forgotten, the hand would be steady and the constant feeling that his life was over and done with finally ceased.

The other doctors on duty in the emergency unit soon realized that they could rely on John, the army veteran who would be calm even if all hell broke loose, who would be able to triage patients with the most gory injuries and also would never panic if a whole load of victims arrived.

John was well appreciated by his co-workers and superiors, he was liked for being a decent and friendly person and nobody ever suspected that he was indeed an adrenaline junkie wo needed to treat broken bones, torn skin, bloody wounds and disrupted internal organs to feel genuinely alive and happy as much as a heroin junkie needed his next hit.

John was well aware of his special addiction but since there was no harm done with persuing it he had no qualms about that at all.

So, right now John leant casually against the wall of the emergency entrance and sipped on the atrocious tea he had gotten out of the vending machine in the main lobby while he devoutly remembered what he had done to secure the survival of the crashed drivers before. Mass accidents were so seldom that this monent had to be cherished.

There was a bit of commotion when another ambulance arrived but sadly John was not needed for this case. A middle-aged woman had apparantly suffered a rupture in her cardiac valve which had already been replaced before so there was no need for John to act because the diagnosis was clear and she was instantly brought to the cardiac ICU. That was one of the special treatment units of this hospital and they had one of the best departments for heart surgery in Britain. In fact they had one of the best heart surgeons in Britain. The man himself would probably state that in fact _he_ was the best heart surgeon in Britain.

John only knew the man by name but had actually never met him or seen a photo of him. Which was not so astounding since their prodigy doctor nearly never left the operating theatres to mingle with his fellow surgeons. Either he would perform high end surgery or he would not be present at all. Mundane socializing activities were obviously not his area and considered below his dignity.

There were a lot of unbelievable rumours floating around concerning the genius surgeon which boiled down to four certain facts:

First, the man was a brilliantly gifted heart surgeon who could seemingly work miracles with his scalpel and had saved a lot of hopeless cases.

Second, the man was an utterly arrogant and insufferable bastard when he had to deal with fellow humans who were not meant to be cut open by his scalpel.

Third, he used his acerbic tongue instead to cut open the poor sods who had to deal with him and deduced their deepest hidden secrets by mere looking at them to leave an embarrassed mess behind.

And fourth, he could not be arsed to operate on a patient below a five in his ridiculous self estimated ranking system with ten being the highest because that would be merely tedious and just boring and a waste of his precious time.

_Good God!_

So to summarize: if you had a severe problem with your heart you should direly wish to attract the attention of Dr. Holmes.

If you were any other person you should direly wish to not attract the attention of Dr. Holmes.

And if you should ever be unlucky enough to attract the _wrath_ of Dr. Holmes for being a _stupid insipid moron_ you should better run and hide because you would find yourself in a verbal warzone which would leave you flayed open and heavily bleeding to death.

Dr. Watson took another sip of his vile bitter tea and simply watched as the paramedics from the ambulance wheeled the poor women with the ruptured valve away and only turned around to look into the emergency lobby as he heard the booming voice of Dr. Greg Lestrade shouting for someone to call Dr. Holmes instantly.

John sauntered inside to do a bit of eavesdropping. Lestrade was the head of the emergency department and was currently demanding to know where the hell Dr. Holmes was. He blanched as someone told him that their prodigy had a day off today and was currently spending his evening attending a concert.

"Just bloody phone him and tell him to get here instantly! " Greg shouted at the nearest nurse.

"Er, um, you´re sure you want to drag him out of that? I know he was waiting to attend the event for a long time? " the nurse visually shivered at the prospect of having to drag the notoriously irascible Dr. Holmes out of a beloved leisure activity.

"Just tell him it´s at least an eight and he will come running here more than willingly" Greg replied exasperatedly.

_Right_, John mused, _an eight should be enough motivation for the git to leave a posh concert. What better way to show off his surgical prowess? An eight, my arse! As if there wasn´t a real human life at stake!_

John wasn´t sure why he felt a sudden bout of anger burning through his body as he imagined the posh arse (he knew Holmes came from money) sitting in an expensive loge of the London Symphony Orchestra listening to a sophisticated violin concerto (he knew that Holmes was a masterful violinist himself) and only deigned to leave because a sophisticated surgery caught his godly attention.

Maybe he was also a bit jealous because of his own rather working class background but anyway he was strangely aggravated by the picture of a tuxedo-clad and perfectly coiffed Dr. Holmes arriving haughtily at the hospital like God himself descending to earth in a cloud of expensive after shave only to deal with a mean mortal woman destined to die of a ruptured heart valve. Because she was an _eight_.

The next 30 minutes went by in a lull. John had retreated inside the building and was sitting in one of the doctor´s offices wracking his brain over some insipid paperwork when he heard a nurse call for him. The A&E had received a radio message from an incoming ambulance. They were bringing in a patient with a bashed in head. There had been a punchfest in "The Misfit" again.

The notorious club was well known as a venue for punkrock and heavy metal bands to perform. John had never been there but in his past four months in the A&E he had already treated six men for injuries due to fighting incidents, one fell out of a window while intoxicated with alcohol (he had lost count how often exactly he had fallen out) as well as one heroin overdose. These occurences had led John to believe that only completely deranged people frequented the infamous dangerous club willingly.

The backdoor of the ambulance was opened from the inside and John was already waiting behind it for the stretcher with the head injury to be unloaded so he yelped in surprise when instead a tall and thin man all clad in black jumped lithely out of the back and nearly collided with him.

The stranger came to a sudden halt in front of John and nearly bumped into his chest. He was at least a head taller than John and said head was streaked with blood from a gash above his left brow where the man firmly pressed an already soaked bandage against it. The whole left side of his otherwise ghostly pale face was tinted red and the blood had run down his swan like neck, across several metal chain necklaces with skulls and spikes and had dripped onto his delicate collarbones that peaked out of the wide neckline of the loose black tank top he wore beneath a black leather jacket. The tank top was wet, clung to his torso and reeked of cheap beer and cigarettes. His black curly hair was drenched in sweat and plastered against his skalp.

John exhaled, composed himself and stood a bit more rigid.

"Let me take a look at your head wound" he asked and looking at the man´s face he registered one lip piercing, two in the right brow and multiple in both ears. John raised his gloved hand to take away the bloodied gauze.

The scruffy stranger shot John a look of utter disdain, rudely pushed away the hand and hissed in a surprisingly deep voice.

"Get out of my way, _I _don´t need your help. The skull fracture is on the stretcher, tend to _him_, you moron! "

He briskly brushed past John nearly elbowing him and defiantly marched on stomping combat boots straight into the emergency lobby.

John was gobsmacked and stared open mouthed after the punk taking in the typically ragged attire those people liked to wear. Skinny black jeans torn at the knees and thighs, two studded belts hanging low beneath his slender hips and a threadbare close-cropped black leather jacket which seemed to only be held together by the metal studs. A large patch was stitched on the back which read "You should see the other one" with a yellow smiley face sporting a blue shiner below.

"Hey, wait you can´t just…" John yelled after the utter arse but then the paramedics demanded John to focus his attention on the fractured skull on the stretcher and he rushed along while the patient was wheeled into one of the examination rooms. A sideways glance revealed John that the obnoxious punk had been intercepted by Dr. Lestrade. That was a relief because John did not have to worry about a drunk and agressive and probably dangerous thug roaming free in his A&E. He saw the man gesturing wildly and shouting at Greg who tried to calm him down and hinder him from getting away and then John had passed and lost sight of them.

It took Dr. Watson about fifteen minutes to get the head injury ready to be carted off for surgery. He was on the way back to his office when he saw the door to one of the examination rooms standing wide open and the seedy punk was skulking alone inside facing a mirror on the wall with his back towards John.

_Oh, I´m going to throw him out right now after giving him a solid dressing down. What´s he doing there anyway? Stealing supplies?_

"What the heck are you doing there? " John demanded in his best Captain Watson voice but if he had expected the punk to flinch at being caught red-handed he was thoroughly disappointed. The prat did not even rudimentarily turn to look at John but kept staring into the mirror.

"Doing sutures, obviously! " was his bored answer.

John felt gobsmacked again. He did not like that at all. He was not one to be surprised or startled easily having served in a warzone and all that but the insufferable punk somehow managed that John always felt like making a fool out of himself.

The doctor snorted and marched with determined strides up close behind the ruffian who still did not bat an eye to John. Now standing close the doctor could see that the man hasn´t been lying. In fact he was holding a medical needle with thread and was about to pinch his wound to get the needle in.

"Don´t! Let me do it. You´ll just hurt yourself! " John exclaimed, suddenly afraid that the git would hurt himself even more.

The punk did not move his head in the slightest, he only rolled his eyes and haughtily watched John´s reflection in the mirror. He sighed deeply and shot off an acerbic reply.

"I definitely won´t let an ex-army doctor whose intermittant tremor of his dominant hand and whose need to use a cane for his psychosomatic limp only subceeds when he´s high on adrenaline get close to my eye to perform sutures. "

John felt like being punched into the stomach. He exhaled sharply as all air left his lungs and it was impossible to breathe in again due to the utter shock that his ugly secret had been thrown into his face so casually while the punk did not even acknoledge his presence properly by actually looking at him. John felt like asphyxiating.

"You should consider to inhale now or your diaphragm will cramp. "

The drily stated advice was not helpful at all. As John remembered how to breathe in his lungs were already burning. Completely unfazed by John´s sudden painful gasp for air the bastard finished his suture and put away the needle.

"Told you so. " He finally turned around and looked John in the eyes, the eyebrow on his uninjured side raised quizzically and his mouth in a sneer.

"You, what? How…you…know…?" John spluttered but his brain seemed devoid of the ability to form proper sentences. At least he could get a better look at the punk´s face and then he was feeling gobsmacked _again_.

The sod had in fact closed the deep laceration on his forehead with eight expertly executed sutures. It was hard to grasp that a such a ruffian was able to do this. Standing so close John could smell the stench of stale beer, sweat and cigarette smoke emanating from him again.

The only thing that came to John´s mind was: "You know how to suture. "

"Brilliant observation. " The punk deadpanned.

They stared at each other. He had the most mesmerizingly coloured eyes John had ever seen.

"You´ve done it before. "

"Now and then, yes. " The punk smiled a cute little lopsided smile.

_Cute? He´s not _cute_! He´s just a real pain the arse. He´s obnoxious and rude and filthy and he stinks!_

"You reek like a rotten toerag! " John blurted.

The punk just giggled, actually _giggled,_ amusedly at John and began to pull off his black leather jacket which he threw at a nearby chair. The faded and torn cutout black tank top he wore underneath showed off his lean but beautifully muscled arms. Bird like thin wrists were adorned with a multitude of metal or leather bracelets, including one that was shaped like a handcuff.

The shabby tanktop should have looked tacky but it actually was just sexy as fuck on him. He looked wretched and divine at the same time. John unconsciously licked his lips. He thought about how he could easily yank away the flimsy piece of fabric and expose one of the nipples underneath. Would it be hard, pointy and erect?

"Stop gaping at me like a goldfish. Do something useful and palpate the ninth an tenth rib above my right kidney and tell me if they´re cracked. "

Completely contrite at getting caught in a reverie and salivating about the man in front of him, _but he could not know the part about his nipples, could he?_ but then he had known all about his army days and limp and tremor before and it was just utterly embarrassing and awful and awkward and John only wanted to run and hide in shame and…

_Oh My God, he´s stripping off the tank top as well._

John feared he would faint any second at the sight of perfectly smooth alabaster skin as the punk turned and exposed his back to him. There should have been tattoos all over him and John felt strangely disappointed that his expectations weren´t fulfilled.

"Why should I help you now, you insolent prat? " He deflected.

„Because you swore an oath, _doctor?_ Or because it´s anatomically impossible that I palpate myself there and because I ask you so nicely? Like_ please?_“

It was the most insincere please that John had ever heard. But he complied anyway. He yearned to feel that angelic marble skin under his fingertips. He yearned to place kisses everywhere. He yearned to explore the areas below those ribs and deeper down. To suck at his nipples and to knead that perfectly shaped arse.

"Nothing broken there", he diagnosed and it would have been _so_ nice to touch this unearthly creature a little bit longer but sadly the man pulled away and turned around. John could see that his right nipple was pierced with a small silver ring. A pendant in the form of a tiny anatomical heart was attached to it.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck this man will be the death of me!_

Suddenly a nurse dressed in the scrubs used in the operating theatres burst into the room.

"Dr. Holmes, the ruptured heart valve is going to be anaesthesized now. Will you come? "

"Shortly. I have to shower first. According to the most sophisticated observation of our Dr. Watson here I apparantly "reek like a rotten toerag. " He answered coolly with a sly glance towards John.

_Oh my God, what? _This_ is our star surgeon? A reeking pierced pub brawling punk? _

John´s face became beet-red as he realized what he had said to Dr. Holmes and instantly wished that the earth would open up and swallow him down into peaceful oblivion.

"Dr. Holmes, I´m so sorry…I didn´t…I´d never…" his embarrassment reached another peak because that mortifying stammer was obviously all he was able to get out at the moment.

Said Dr. Holmes ambled to the door in a lithe catlike stride but before he stepped out he turned once more, raised both eyebrows and _smirked_. Smugly. Very smugly.

"Rotten toerag? Really? " He cooed.

_Please, God, let me die!_

And then the prodigy _winked_ at the shell shocked Dr. Watson before he swanned out and left John to swallow hard at the sight of the gloriously still naked back and a sadly still clothed but also very glorious arse.

John had been on duty for another three hours at the A&E which went by in a haze. He had finished his shift at two in the morning and only thought about escaping the place and to quickly forget the whole painful „punk incident“. He exited the building through a side entrance and aimed to head for the tube station.

"Hello again, army doctor."

The familiar deep rumbling voice made John stop dead in his tracks.

_Oh please, no! Why has it to be _him_ of all the people in this fucking hospital?_

John sighed and turned to face the punk doctor menace. Just that he wasn´t at all punk anymore. The surgeon leant casually against the wall and smoked a cigarette. He was clad in the typical non-descript white scrubs of a nurse. Not only the black clothes were gone, there was also no sign of the necklaces and bracelets. Only the piercings in his face and ears remained. He looked sort of…less. Somehow diminished without all his previous gear.

John braced himself. "Listen, Dr. Holmes, I didn´t know who you were and I didn´t mean that you´re a toerag and can we just forget…" John started to apologize but got interrupted.

"No."

"What?"

"No, you did mean it."

"Please, I´m really sorry and…"

"You don´t have to."

"Huh?"

"Be sorry. I´m not angry at your expletive. In fact it was rather an imaginative one." Dr. Holmes looked actually intrigued and curious at John.

"So you´re often insulted then?" John instantly wanted to bite his tongue. Why can´t he just shut his gob and not make it even worse?

Holmes smiled. "Yes. Considering that I´m not exactly a role model for socially acceptable behaviour." It made his beautiful bluegrey eyes sparkle and tiny wrinkles formed at their corners. Somehow John knew that only very few people were deigned to see this genuine expression.

_Well, I´ll just surge ahead and ask._

"So what do you get called normally?"

"Oh, well, things like bastard, arse, cock, prick, sod, wanker…"

"Ok, Ok, I get it. Incredibly dull name-calling! Just stop!" John giggled like a school girl.

"But maybe we could come to a mutual agreement that you would call me Sherlock instead of toerag from now on?“ He offered his hand with an almost shy gesture.

John took it. The grip was firm and warm. Instead of sweat and beer Sherlock smelled faintly of soap, sandalwood and green apple now. "Er, right. I am John."

_God, what a stupid thing to say._

"Yes, I know."

John´s eyes flicked to Sherlock´s head that was a ridiculous wild mop of luscious black curls. He could not suppress a snigger.

"It always looks like that if I can´t use my own shampoo."

Now that the situation was more comfortable and Sherlock was not acting as an obnoxious arsehole like before, John felt safe to satisfy his curiosity.

"Why have you been in that notorious club?"

Sherlock huffed. "Is it so difficult for you to grasp that I simply love punkrock music and like going to concerts and dance in "The Misfit"? You´ve seen me dressed when I arrived, I´m punk at heart."

John snorted, "What happened to you anyway? Got drunk and started a fight?"

"Don´t be stupid! It may be compromising your general opinion of punk people but most are just peaceful music enthusiasts and like expressing themselves through their clothes. Sadly, two guys beside me had an argument. I did not plan on getting my head hit by a stray shard from a thrown bottle. Also, I was not keen on being punched in my back because the man besides me thought I had hit him with the bottle. Then he drenched me with his beer before he got his head bashed in from the original bottle-thrower. I could get out of the fight and tended to my wound in the loo when I got a call that Lestrade demanded me to come to the ICU. I decided to ride along in the ambulance with the fractured skull. So, I strongly disagree with your allegation that I voluntarily seek out dangerous situations. You´re the adrenaline-addict here."

While explaining in rapid-fire mode, Sherlock had become more and more agitated and gestured wildly with his hands. That seemed to be a habit of his as John was reminded of his behaviour earlier in the A&E lobby. John could see the inner sides of Holmes´ elbows and instantly recognized the scarred skin above his veins for what it was.

John ignored the acerbic remark about his danger-addiction and replied casually. "Well, you´ve been doing drugs. Seems dangerous enough to me."

Sherlock blinked unfazed. "Right. Intraveinous cocaine user. When I was young."

"You´re quite open about it."

He shrugged. "Why bother to hide? I´ve been clean for a long time. That´s part of my past and I´m not ashamed. In fact, I wouldn´t be a heart surgeon had I not overdosed."

"You what? " John exclaimed.

"I miscalculated my dosage, suffered severe tachycardia and would have died from a blown vessel in my heart sac."

"When did that happen?"

"I was 15, a full-blown junkie, had run away from boarding school and already lived on the streets for several months. " Sherlock got a bit bored retelling his story.

"Jesus! How did you survive? " John had to swallow down his shock. Fifteen!

"Oh! Another homeless addict in the squat called an ambulance. I was lucky that I landed under the hands of a very skillful heart surgeon. He did a marvellous job at a very difficult procedure to quench my bleeding. " He paused shortly before continuing still half-way bored.

"When I came to after surgery and withdrawal had already set in he demanded that I detoxed because he wanted to publish a paper on the innovative technique he used and would be quite pissed if I died on him before he could collect any long-term data. " Sherlock smiled fondly at the memory.

"What an arse! " John felt scandalized instead.

Sherlock chuckled: "Well, I liked him instantly."

"Two of a kind you were, huh?" John teased.

Sherlock snorted. "Anyway, we talked, I got fascinated with heart surgery, I detoxed, finished school, started uni, graduated and here I am. The very best heart surgeon of England."

"And that´s as modest as you get!"

"But it´s true. I could choose between the best hospitals in Great Britain. They were all falling over themselves to employ me and I chose London, the city I love best."

"I wonder that they let you keep your facial piercings." John wondered.

"I´ve had them since I was fourteen. I simply told them that one of the other hospitals would definitely not be so small minded about that. If they wanted their own genius surgeon they would have to put up with that or I´d just sign up somewhere else." Sherlock looked very self-satisfied.

"You really would have gone somewhere else? "

"No, never! Of course I did not tell them that or otherwise it would have been detrimental to my chain of arguments, don´t you think?" 

John laughed out loud and soon Sherlock´s sensual baritone laughter joined in.

"By the way, did you already receive the EBSH club membership card?" Sherlock asked in a non-sequitur.

"What´s that?"

"Anderson, the twerp, made plastic cards and gives them to all whom I deduced to remember that they have been officially "Eviscerated By Sherlock Holmes". I´ve been told it´s a great honour. " He deadpanned but his eyes laughed silently.

John broke out into a severe laughing fit.

"That´s not funny." Sherlock tried to sound offended but failed spectacularly.

"It really is." John wheezed.

They stood in amicable silence while Sherlock finished smoking. John was mesmerized by the long fingers and the way how Sherlock´s perfect cupid bow closed around the cigarette. John thought about those lips closing around something completely different.

"Join me in the club on Sunday evening." Sherlock said suddenly.

"What?"

"The band, "You should see the other one" are giving another concert. I can lend you a leather jacket and if you´ll be wearing your combat trousers and boots you´ll fit right in with the punk crowd."

John swallowed and felt sweat forming on his forehead. His cock gave a sudden throb.

_Fuck_.

"I´d like to see you in black leather, doctor." Sherlock purred.

_Fuck Fuck Fuck._

"Are you inviting me on a date?"

"What if?" Sherlock stalled.

"With _you_? In _that_ club?" John swallowed.

"Don´t think I did not observe your salivating when I took off my leather jacket and the tank top. You liked what you saw." His voice had become a whole octave deeper.

"What if?" John stalled.

"I´ll wear my fishnet top and you could see my nipples shining through." Sherlock deadpanned and his vibrant eyes were radiating pure mischief.

_Good God!_

John swallowed again. His cock twitched again.

"Maybe I´ll let you take it off later if you don´t like it." Sherlock´s voice was full of sultry innuendo.

_It should be legally forbidden to sound like liquid sex!_

"I´ll think about it." was all John managed to choke out. His cock was half hard now.

"So is it a yes then?"

"The people in the club are dangerous." John tried do deflect.

"Oh, I promise you´ll thrive there. And I´m dangerous, too." His voice became even lower.

Now John´s cock was painfully hard.

Sherlock looked at him from under his beautifully curved eyelashes and deliberately opened his mouth to lick at his own forefinger.

It was an unbelievably cliche gesture but it did not fail to bring John close to the edge. The bastard was trying to make him come in his pants like a stupid teenager. The wanker! But John was also a force to be reckoned with. Sherlock had it coming all the way.

John quickly grabbed the arm of the momentarily stunned heart surgeon, deftly twisted him around in a tight police armhold and shoved him against the wall. He grunted in surprise.

"Just remember I was an army captain and I do not tolerate insolent behaviour." John whispered into Sherlock´s ear and then he licked diagonally across it before he let the panting surgeon go.

John relished the look of Sherlock´s flushed face and wide open aroused eyes and decided to up the game another bit.

"Maybe I´ll let you take off my dog tags later if you´re a good boy on sunday."

John heard Sherlock swallow twice as he deliberately turned away and went for the tube station without another glance back.

_Got you!_

**Author's Note:**

> Some annotations:
> 
> The title of the fanfic is borrowed from a song by the Black Veil Brides.  
I absolutely love Sherlock being a punk and I utterly adore the beautiful punklock art by bluebellofbakerstreet.  
If you liked this, there will be another short punklock fic which is nearly completed.  
I´m also working on a long story with about 20 chapters, 16 are completed, which is actually the first Sherlock fanfiction I started to write.
> 
> meet_me_in_samarra


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